“Who?”
“That dumb cop.”
“He isn’t dumb.”
“Lovely ass. You’re horny, Brenda.”
“I’m getting hot. Like before.”
“Of course you are. Hotter and hotter.”
“I’m shaking.”
“You want me more than you did before.”
“Do it to me.”
“Hotter and hotter.”
“I’m-embarrassed.”
“No. You aren’t.”
“Oh, God.”
“Feel good?”
“So good.”
“You don’t look at all like Miriam.” “Who’s Miriam?”
“The old bastard should see me now.” “Who? Miriam?”
“He’d be outraged. Quote the Bible.” “Who would?”
“Dawson. Probably can’t even get it up.” “I’m scared,” she said suddenly. “Of what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop being scared. You aren’t scared.” “Okay.”
“Are you scared?”
She smiled. “No. You going to screw me?” “Batter the hell out of you. Hot, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Burning up. Do it. Now.” “Klinger and his damned chorus girls.” “Klinger?”
“Probably queer anyway.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“Tear you up. Big as a horse.” “Yes. I want it. I’m hot.”
“I think maybe Miriam was queer.”
Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat .
At five o’clock Monday afternoon, Buddy Pellineri, just out of bed with seven hours to pass before he had to report to work at the mill, went to Edison’s store to see if any new magazines had been put on the racks. His favorites were the ones that had a lot of pictures in them: People, Travel, Nevada, Arizona Highways, Vermont Life, a few of the photography journals. He found two issues that he didn’t have and took them to the counter to pay for them.
Jenny was at the cash register. She was wearing a white blouse with yellow flowers on it. Her long black hair looked freshly washed, thick and shiny. “You look so pretty, Miss Jenny.”
“Why, thank you, Buddy.”
He blushed and wished he had said nothing. She said, “Is the world treating you right?”
“No complaints.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“How much I owe you?”
“Do you have two dollars?”
He thrust a hand into his pocket, came out with some change and rumpled bills. “Sure. Here.”
“You get three quarters in change,” she said.
“I thought they cost more.”
“Now, you know you get a discount here.”
“I’ll pay. Don’t want special treatment.”
“You’re a close friend of the family,” she said, shaking a finger at him. “We give discounts to all close friends of the family. Sam would be angry if you didn’t accept that. You put those quarters in your pocket.”
“Well . . . thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Buddy.”
“Is Sam here?”
‘She pointed to the curtained doorway. “Upstairs. He’s getting dinner.
“I ought to tell him.”
“Tell him what?” she asked.
“About this thing I saw.”
“Can’t you tell me?”
“Well . . . Better him.”
“You may go up and see him, if you like.”
The invitation frightened him. He was never comfortable in other people’s houses. “You have cats up there?”
“Cats? No. No pets at all.”
He knew she wouldn’t lie to him-but then, cats turned up in the most unexpected places. Two weeks after his mother died, he was asked to visit the parsonage. Reverend Potter and Mrs. Potter had taken him straight to the parlor where she had served homemade cakes and cookies. He sat on the divan, knees together, hands in his lap. Mrs. Potter made hot chocolate. Reverend Potter poured for everyone. The two of them sat opposite Buddy in a pair of wing-backed chairs. For a while everything was so nice. He ate the gingerbread and the little cookies with red and green sugar on them and he drank the cocoa and smiled a lot and talked a little-and then a big white furry cat leaped over his shoulder, onto his lap, claws digging in for an instant, from his lap to the floor. He didn’t even know they had a cat. Was that fair? Not to tell him? It had crept onto the window sill behind the divan. How long had it been there? All the while he ate? Paralyzed with fear, unable to speak, wanting to scream, he spilled his chocolate on the carpet and wet himself. Peed in his pants right on the preacher’s brocade divan. What a stain. It was awful. An awful day. He never went back there again, and he stopped going to church as well, even if he might go to hell for that.